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“ M r. Latham will see you now, Your Grace,” the young clerk said, his voice high with nerves. “Though I doubt he’s expecting anyone today.”

“I imagine not,” Rowan said, following the clerk down a narrow hall lined with old filing cabinets. The Plymouth office of Latham & Associates smelled like stale paper and pipe smoke, the walls tinged yellow with age and habit.

George Latham, thin and sharp-featured, with spectacles halfway down his nose, was hunched over a ledger when they entered. He glanced up, clearly startled, his brow lifting as he recognized his visitor.

“Your Grace, ahem, well, this is a surprise.” He stood quickly and bumped his desk, sending his inkwell wobbling before it toppled with a splatter.

“I wasn’t aware you were in Plymouth.”

“I’m not here for pleasantries,” Rowan said, stepping further into the room. “I need details about a payment you processed a few years back. It went to a man named Captain Elias Veer.”

The color drained from Latham’s face. “Captain Veer? I’m not sure I recall?—”

“You recall perfectly well,” Rowan cut him off, stepping closer to the desk. “Twelve hundred pounds, paid through an intermediary called Edward Bentern. Ring any bells now?”

Latham’s hands shook as he reached for a handkerchief to mop his forehead. “Your Grace, I handle many transactions. If you could give me more details?—”

“The details are that someone paid a substantial sum to have me abducted and pressed into naval service,” Rowan said, his voice deadly quiet. “Veer has already confessed his part. Now I want to know who was behind it.”

“Abducted?” Latham sank into his chair as if his legs could no longer support him. “Your Grace, I did not know. I thought it was merely a business arrangement.”

“What kind of business arrangement?”

“I don’t know! Mr. Bentern’s representative contacted me about facilitating a payment. Everything was handled through proper channels, all documentation was in order.” Latham’s voice grew more frantic with each word. “I never met Mr. Bentern himself.”

Rowan leaned forward, placing his hands flat on the desk. “Then who did you meet?”

“His accountant. A Mr. Quince from London. He brought the authorization and the funds.” Latham fumbled through his desk drawers. “I still have the correspondence somewhere.”

“Find it.”

The search took several minutes, Latham’s hands growing shakier as he rummaged through files. Finally, he produced a slim folder containing several letters.

“Here,” he said, passing the papers to Rowan with obvious relief. “Everything I have regarding the transaction.”

Rowan scanned the documents. The handwriting was neat and professional, but the content revealed little.

Mr. Quince, representing the interests of Edward Bentern, arranging payment for services rendered by Captain Veer.

No sign of what those services might be, no hint of the true purpose behind the transaction.

“Where can I find this Mr. Quince?” Rowan asked, pocketing the letters.

“Lombard Street, I believe. Though I haven’t heard from him in some time.” Latham wiped his brow again. “Your Grace, I swear on my mother’s grave that I knew nothing about any abduction. I simply facilitated the payment as requested.”

Rowan studied the man’s face, noting the genuine fear there. Latham was a small fish, a tool used by others. Threatening him further would yield nothing.

“If you’re lying to me, I will find out,” Rowan said, straightening. “And if I discover you knew more than you’re admitting, I’ll see you ruined.”

“I understand, Your Grace. I’ve told you everything.”

Rowan turned to leave, then paused at the door. “One more thing. Has anyone else asked you about this transaction? Anyone at all?”

Latham shook his head vigorously. “No one, Your Grace. You’re the first.”

Which meant whoever was behind this felt secure in their anonymity. That was about to change.

The trip back to London dragged. Rowan sat with his elbow propped against the carriage window, watching the countryside smear past in muted greens and browns. His thoughts kept circling the same point: Mr. Quince. If anyone could shed light on Edward Bentern, it was him.

By the time he reached Lombard Street, the sun was low, casting long shadows over the narrow lane. The building was wedged between a wine shop and a printing press, barely wide enough for a proper doorway. A tarnished brass plate beside it read: H. Quince, Accounting Services.

The front door was already ajar. Rowan nudged it open and climbed a steep set of stairs that creaked under his boots. Another door at the top. Same name on the glass. He knocked.

“Come in,” called a voice.

Inside, it looked like a ledger had exploded. Papers everywhere—across the floor, spilling out of drawers, teetering in unsteady stacks on every surface. Behind the mess sat a young man, no more than twenty, hunched over a book with ink-stained fingers and smudged glasses slipping down his nose.

“I’m looking for Mr. Quince,” Rowan said.

The young man glanced up and blinked. He took in the fine coat, the serious expression, the no-nonsense stance.

“Oh. Right. Sorry, sir—Mr. Quince passed about three months ago. I’m his apprentice. Thomas Hartwell. Is there something I can help with?”

Rowan’s jaw tightened. Another name crossed off the list. “I need to look at records. A client—Edward Bentern. Transactions from around three years back.”

Thomas pushed his glasses up with his knuckle and looked around the room like the files might answer for him.

“Bentern?” he echoed. “Doesn’t ring a bell, but, well…” He motioned to the chaos. “It’s been a bit of a mess. Toward the end, Mr. Quince wasn’t exactly… sharp. Most of the filing system is in his head. Or was.”

“Search anyway,” Rowan commanded.

“Of course, sir. Though it might take some time.” Thomas began pulling ledgers from various stacks, checking index pages, and scanning entries. “What sort of transaction was it?”

“A payment authorization. Twelve hundred pounds.”

Thomas whistled low. “That’s a substantial sum.

Should be recorded somewhere if it went through our books.

” He continued his search, muttering to himself as he sorted through papers.

“The trouble is, many of the older records are misfiled or poorly labeled. Mr. Quince developed a rather… creative filing system in his later years.”

Rowan watched with growing impatience as the young man searched drawer after drawer, shelf after shelf. Minutes ticked by, then an hour, with no sign of any record bearing Bentern’s name.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Thomas said finally, pushing a stack of ledgers aside. “I can’t find anything under that name. No Edward Bentern in any of our records from the past five years.”

“That’s impossible,” Rowan said, his control fraying. “The transaction definitely went through this office.”

“Perhaps it was recorded under a different name? Mr. Quince sometimes used client pseudonyms for sensitive matters.” Thomas looked up hopefully. “If you could give me more details about the transaction…”

“I’ve given you enough details.” Rowan’s voice turned cold. “Show me the ledgers for that period. All of them.”

Thomas hesitated. “Sir, I’m not sure I should?—”

“Show me the ledgers, or I’ll tear this office apart myself.”

The threat in Rowan’s voice was unmistakable. Thomas quickly gathered several thick volumes, placing them on the desk with trembling hands.

“These cover the relevant time period,” he said. “Though I should warn you, Mr. Quince’s handwriting became quite difficult to read in his final years.”

Rowan snatched up the first ledger, scanning page after page of cramped, faded entries.

The handwriting was a mess. Barely readable, ink smeared, and names crammed together like an afterthought.

Most of it looked like gibberish. Some entries were scratched out, others written in shorthand that meant nothing to him.

A few were in what looked like code: strange initials, symbols, marks that repeated but didn’t make sense.

“What’s this supposed to mean?” Rowan asked, jabbing a finger at one of the clusters.

Thomas leaned in, squinting. “Honestly? I’m not sure. Mr. Quince had his own way of doing things. Could be internal references. Or client codes. Or… something only he understood.”

Rowan’s patience snapped. Three years chasing shadows, and still nothing solid. Every lead seemed to vanish just as he reached for it. And now Selina’s life was in danger, and the trail was as cold as ever.

He didn’t say a word. He just scooped the ledgers off the desk.

“Wait! Your Grace, those are our only copies!” Thomas reached out, alarmed. “I still need them for?—”

“Send me the bill,” Rowan cut in, already tucking the books under his arm. “I’ll return them when I’m done.”

He didn’t wait for a response. Just walked out, leaving Thomas frozen in place, mouth half open.

The ledgers were heavy, but not just physically. They carried that awful mix of hope and frustration like answers were in there somewhere , buried beneath the mess, just out of reach.

Back at the townhouse, he brushed past Simmons without a word and headed straight to his study. The ledgers hit the desk with a dull thud, scattering loose papers in every direction.

He stood there a moment, jaw tight, hands braced on either side of the desk. Then he pulled a chair closer and got to work.

“Will you be dining tonight, Your Grace?” Simmons asked from the doorway.

“No. And I don’t want to be disturbed.”

“Very good, Your Grace. Shall I?—”

“Close the door behind you.”

Alone at last, Rowan shrugged out of his coat, letting it fall wherever it landed. He moved to the sideboard and poured himself a generous measure of brandy, downing it in one swallow before pouring another.

The ledgers sat before him like accusers. Three volumes of chicken-scratch handwriting and cryptic notations, somewhere within which lay the key to Edward Bentern’s identity. Somewhere in this maze of numbers and symbols was the person who had stolen a year of his life and now threatened Selina’s.

He opened the first ledger, squinting at the faded ink in the lamplight. Each page was a trial, the handwriting so poor that individual letters were often indistinguishable. The names appeared to be written in code, amounts listed in abbreviations that defied interpretation.

Hours passed. The brandy bottle grew lighter as Rowan’s frustration mounted. Entry after entry yielded nothing, each page bringing fresh disappointment. His eyes burned from straining to read the awful handwriting, his head pounding from the combination of alcohol and concentration.

Somewhere in this house, servants went about their evening routines.

Somewhere in London, Selina was sleeping under another roof, driven away by his own stubborn pride and misguided protectiveness.

The thought of her absence was a constant ache, made worse by the knowledge that he had caused it himself.

He missed her laugh. Missed the way she looked at him over breakfast, as if he were someone worth treasuring. Missed the warmth of her body beside his in the darkness, the quiet conversations they’d shared in those brief, perfect weeks when they’d let themselves love each other.

And for what? To protect her from dangers that found her anyway? To spare her the risks that came with being his wife, only to watch someone try to poison her in their own home?

He was a fool. Worse than a fool—he was a coward, just as she’d called him. Too afraid to trust in what they’d built together, too terrified of loss to fight for what he’d found.

Another page, another series of incomprehensible entries. The letters swam before his eyes, blurring together in the lamplight. His hand shook as he reached for the brandy bottle, missing the glass on his first attempt.

“Damn you,” he whispered to the ledger, to Edward Bentern, to his own failings. “Damn you all.”

The clock chimed midnight, then one, then two. Still, he persisted, driven by desperation and guilt in equal measure. Every entry he deciphered brought him no closer to answers, but he couldn’t stop. Stopping meant accepting defeat, accepting that he might never find the person responsible.

Accepting that he had destroyed his marriage for nothing.

The third ledger proved no more enlightening than the first two. Pages of financial gibberish, client codes that meant nothing, transaction records that revealed everything and nothing at once. His vision blurred with exhaustion and alcohol, but he pressed on, turning page after endless page.

Somewhere near dawn, with the brandy bottle empty and his head spinning, Rowan’s strength finally gave out. His forehead struck the desk with a dull thud, and ledgers scattered around him like the remnants of hope.

In his dreams, Selina called his name. But when he reached for her, she faded like smoke, leaving him alone with his failures and his fears.